


Of Time and Means

by svegliatevi



Category: Dune - All Media Types, Dune Series - Frank Herbert
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23288434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svegliatevi/pseuds/svegliatevi
Summary: "It is your impudence," the Baron replied, beginning to raise his voice again, "indeed, your short-sightedness, that makes you unfit to master a Mentat!""But you will pass him on to me," Rabban protested, "when—"The Baron smiled. "When I die?"Baron Harkonnen summons Rabban to discuss the many investments involved in acquiring his new Mentat — and to issue a warning.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Of Time and Means

**Author's Note:**

> This is set around twenty years prior to the events of Dune. (May contradict prequels; I don't write with their continuity in mind.) While Piter doesn't appear in person here, I think he's discussed extensively enough to merit a tag. "Other characters talking shit about someone who isn't in the room" is a fun genre, though writing the Baron's dialogue is always a skin-crawling experience.
> 
> Appendix IV in Dune mentions that Rabban's full title is just Count Glossu Rabban, and that Feyd was born Feyd-Rautha Rabban before his incorporation into the household — at which point Feyd gets to use the name Harkonnen, while Rabban is obligated to stick to the distaff name. But before Feyd came along, the idea of becoming Harkonnen's successor might have been dangled in front of Rabban for a while.

> _KING CLAUDIUS:_
> 
> _Let’s further think of this;_
> 
> _Weigh what convenience both of time and means_
> 
> _May fit us to our shape;  
> _
> 
> [Hamlet 4.7.148-150]

“I expect you to mind yourself in the presence of my Mentat, nephew.”

Rabban paled, though he found himself heating with anger. “Has he spoken ill of me already?” he demanded, unmindful of the unchecked irritation in his tone.

It had been scarcely a handful of standard months since he had been formally acquainted with the Baron's new Mentat, and already the creature had proven himself a thorn in the side.

The Baron raised a withering glance across the conference table. “No,” he said, lightly. “But I know you, nephew. You are of a certain indelicate temperament, and I will not have any indiscretions on your part squandering my expenditure — which, I would add, has been extreme. Do you recall how much I paid for Piter?”

Rabban could not summon the specific total, but he knew that the Mentat-minders on Tleilax had gouged House Harkonnen happily. “A large sum, Uncle. Well more than a decagram of spice is worth,” he guessed.

“That’s so,” the Baron said, though Rabban saw that he marked the failure to recall the exact figure. 

But that, Rabban thought, was precisely the kind of task he purchased the Mentat to do.

“You are, of course, thinking of the expense in solaris,” the Baron continued.

“Yes,” Rabban agreed, after a long moment of consideration. “What other expense is there?”

In the next instant, Rabban realized that he had misspoken. The Baron fixed his beady, black eyes upon him with unreserved contempt for the question's impudence — but abruptly, his expression softened to one of resignation. Evidently, he had expected as much from Rabban.

Rabban inclined his head in a silent apology, albeit an insincere one.

“What other expense?” The Baron repeated. “Because I am generous, Rabban,” he began, enunciating the distaff name with care, holding Rabban separate from Harkonnen, “I shall explain this to you once, and only the once. How long ago did I announce to you that I would be pursuing the matter of another Mentat?”

Rabban opened his mouth to reply, but had to grasp for the answer for several moments. “Perhaps seven years ago.” Radnor, his grandfather's wretched old Mentat, an inherited relic, had still been alive at the time — barely so, but alive enough.

“Consider the fact that I would not announce such a thing to you were it not a certainty well underway. I chose that creature years in advance, when it was but a young boy. It was to be reserved for this House’s consideration once it had matured.”

Rabban knew himself to be some years the Mentat’s senior, putting Piter to his approximation at about thirty. He did not know if that was young for a Mentat advisor, having only the ancient Thufir Hawat and the equally-ancient, deceased Radnor for comparison — but he knew that advisors were the most costly, their functions the most expansive and interdisciplinary. His brow furrowed. “Why the bidding farce, then?” he asked. 

The Baron scoffed. “He was not promised to me. There were other offers made for our dear Piter, and indeed there was no contract signed in my hand — it’d be unwise to pursue such a commitment, for I was not to know so far in advance whether he would prove suitable by the end of his training, years hence. I had my eye on others, you see; I might have accepted another of the same class, if Piter did not prove himself to be worth the investment.”

“But he did.”

“He did," the Baron echoed. "A very able Mentat for our enterprises, as you’ve seen. And well you know that House Harkonnen outbids any other with ease. What I spent to obtain him, though a considerable sum, is easily recouped within three years. I anticipated it. I would have spent the same on any Mentat of the same caliber, considering their great utility.”

“But there is another expense?”

The Baron scowled. “I have just described to you the _time_. Time spent waiting. I'll insist you remember that my time is valuable, and I have been biding it for more than a decade! That is the first expense. Add to it this: a Mentat is a living creature, a machine-precise mind in a human body. The human body must be fed and clothed and maintained, mustn't it?"

Rabban did not reply, thinking that he sensed a trap.

"Mustn't it?" the Baron demanded. "Will it not starve, nephew, if it does not eat?"

Brow furrowing, Rabban answered, "Of course. He's human."

"A costly characteristic," the Baron said darkly. "But a necessary one." The transgressive nature of the machine cultures of Ix and Richese fascinated the Baron, Rabban had come to understand, but he would never in earnest consider a man-likeness in a machine to be trustworthy. He settled, then, for a machine-likeness in a man.

"Men are more easily manipulated," Rabban ventured.

"Yes," the Baron said, and fell into silent thought, eyes narrowed. Rarely was he in such total and unadorned agreement with his nephew. Rabban suspected that in the heavy space of the following pause, his uncle was searching for some disagreement or correction to seize upon.

But it did not come. Instead, the Baron continued: "And so I have presented the second expense: his upkeep, that which is required for him to live comfortably enough to function at the most optimal capacity, as they say." Lowering his voice as if conspiratorially, he added, "And he is proving to have quite a taste for melange. We can facilitate this, of course — for a man who has known hunger and been fed is a man of great use, nephew. A man who recognizes the hand that feeds him has granted that hand immense power. I will have him recognize the name Harkonnen as his only hope for succor in life. Do you understand?"

"He's better off kept sated than starving." Rabban nodded. "He'll expect to work for his keep, to uphold a standard of work that's to your liking, sire... or he'll lack the spice he craves. He's better off with House Harkonnen."

"With House Harkonnen, yes. Only this House could maintain the luxury to which he is now accustomed." The Baron began to nod as well, his unpleasantly cherubic head bobbing. "Yes, precisely." He drummed his fingertips atop the jade-pink elacca surface of his conference table. "Now, a third great expense: this creature must be given a place to operate.” Nonchalantly, he added, “I am providing Piter with a laboratory.” 

Piter had been situated in his predecessor’s quarters without incident. Though Radnor’s few personal effects — primarily a cache of unique weapons and sensitive information gathered over decades — had been stored elsewhere for the new Mentat to examine at his leisure, much of his furniture remained in the apartments, and Piter had requested no alterations to the furnishing or layout of the rooms as of yet. 

His tastes, in everything but narcotics and poisons — one and the same, at times — were not extravagant or exacting.

Even so, a personal laboratory seemed excessive — almost lavish.

“You do not conceal well that look of dismay, nephew,” the Baron said. “Would you have me send my Mentat unaccompanied into the city in search of a place to conduct his research? Would I do this? Do tell me if I would do this.”

Following a brief moment of deliberation, Rabban decided, “No, my lord would not.”

“And why, Rabban, do you suppose that is?”

“He is too valuable. Even accompanied, it could be an opportunity for someone to compromise or sabotage your Mentat.” He paused, thinking. "And it would be easier for saboteurs to spy upon his activities."

The Baron did not praise his acumen in deducing as much. "All of this is so," he granted. "I want him kept under my watch. He is skilled with poisons, Rabban — very skilled indeed. He may yet innovate upon chaumas and chaumurky for my benefit, but I will not have him do so too secretively — and I will not allow his work to be pilfered and turned against this House."

Rabban's nose wrinkled. "A poisoner," he murmured. 

"Do you find that distasteful, nephew?"

Remembering himself, Rabban cleared his throat. "It is not my preference, my lord."

"Piter was not trained to suit your preferences _,_ Rabban." The Baron's voice was cold. "Nor mine, in certain respects — an ugly thing, certainly, but a useful one. And unsightly as I find him, that makes him best kept out of sight — for there, under such a cloak of shadow, he'll do his best work."

Rabban did not like poison — he did not know how to detect it, and distrusted poison snoopers on the basis that innovators such as Piter existed, capable of tricking and subverting them. It was too subtle an art for a man like Rabban, who valued more than anything the chance to destroy life with his own two hands.

Yet he took the Baron's meaning. It was best to have such a creature as that in one's employ, working on one's behalf.

"Rabban," the Baron snapped, refocusing his nephew's attention. "I have presented you with a scant three grave expenses to do with this Mentat. I would have you repeat them, that I may ensure you've understood me."

"Four," Rabban said — and seeing the Baron's beady eyes widen incredulously at being challenged, he froze.

Willing himself to retain his composure, he repeated them. "The time spent to train him. The upkeep, to feed and shelter him for life, to ensure he depends on us and no other. The environs in which he'll work... And the money," he emphasized, "to secure his purchase from Tleilax."

"Yes," the Baron growled, as if he himself had not lost sight of that point, if only momentarily, in his meandering oration. As carefully as he recorded its loss, the money was disposable to him. It was of the least import in the grand scheme of things, yet never entirely beneath his notice. "Yes, Rabban, indeed. At a minimum, those are the expenses required to maintain our Piter. I trust you understand why I will not allow you to disturb him."

"Yes," Rabban insisted, appropriately deferential. "But…" he began, averting his eyes— "If my mere presence will offend him, then perhaps, my lord, it belies some fragility of character—"

The Baron scowled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Again, you misunderstand. It is no matter of fragility. I am no fool; I would not waste such resources on a fragile Mentat!" He huffed a tremendous breath, face reddening in agitation, and fought to lower his voice. "No, I suspect you will find it very difficult to offend that foul creature. But I will not give you the opportunity to divert his labors from what _I_ require. You are not to distract him, Rabban."

Rabban swallowed thickly, feeling chastised like a petulant child despite his four decades of life, upbraided like an unruly serf despite his long years of service to the Baron, disavowed like bastard son despite the Harkonnen blood in his veins. Jaw clenched, he murmured, "I understand, my lord. I had no plans as such."

"It is your impudence," the Baron replied, beginning to raise his voice again, "indeed, your short-sightedness, that makes you unfit to master a Mentat!"

"But you will pass him on to me," Rabban protested, "when—"

The Baron smiled. "When I die?" A booming laugh erupted from his deepest and most vile recesses, like a bellows furiously pumping hot air. It continued for longer than Rabban could endure; gooseflesh rose on the back of his neck, scalp prickling with a primal kind of discomfiture only his uncle could elicit.

"Ah-h-h-h, nephew," the Baron sighed, staring him down across the glossy tabletop. His greasy fingerprints smeared over its polished surface as he spoke, tapping his fingertips for emphasis. "Don't be naïve. My death is an inevitability, true. One day, I will be gone. That does not mean you stand to inherit. Only your conduct will ensure your share of my wealth. The misfortune of our shared blood does not entitle you to my belongings or my title."

Rabban's mind seemed to stutter. "I did not mean…"

"Do not play that little game with me, boy," the Baron snapped. "Perhaps you meant to say, ' _When I am Baron…_ ' Is that it?"

Rabban said nothing.

"Well, recall that I've promised you no such thing. Mark that, and remember it. Nothing would bind me to such a promise, had I done so." He sneered. "And make no mistake, Rabban: Piter belongs to me. That Mentat is my property; it is the legal property of my household." Spider-black eyes fixed and unblinking, he asked, "Do you understand why I summoned you this evening?"

Casting about for an answer, Rabban could not find a satisfactory way to phrase his first assumption.

It was not pity that provoked the Baron to tell him, but his own waning patience:

"It does not please me to threaten to revoke your status, nephew. I would like for you to exceed my expectations. I truly would. To that end, I insist you behave, that my Mentat may one day be of use to you. If you've no clue how to manage such an asset properly, what use could it possibly be?"

"None," Rabban surmised.

"Indeed. And then you would be left with the great trial of disposing of him — a terrible waste — and procuring a suitable replacement. And we have discussed, at some length, the cost of that. Haven't we?"

Mutely, Rabban nodded.

"You see, nephew? I act only out of charity." A slow, mirthless smile spread across the Baron's face. Sharply, he added, "Look at me! This will be the only charity — my most well-meaning advice, now, long before the advent of my demise, after which you will be alone, and there will be no charity in the handling of this House. None at all."

That patronizing tone.

Rabban loathed it.

He loathed Piter for causing the Baron to denigrate him so, however indirectly.

"Thank you, my lord," he said through gritted teeth.

"You will regret my loss, one day. You will feel the absence of my guidance — and the utter lack of reprieve, if ever you do fill this role of mine." The Baron pinched his teeth together and bared them at Rabban. It was nothing like a smile.

"Mind yourself," the Baron warned. "Not only with my Mentat, but with me, boy." His grimace widened. "I shall never stoop to have such a conversation with you again."

"Understood, my lord."

"Now, leave. I tire of this — and I am hungry."

As Rabban stood and turned to leave, the Baron's voice emerged again from the cloaking half-darkness:

"Remember, Rabban: your appetite is not to exceed my own. My Barony is not a mere treat for you, a morsel to reward your obedience! You shall never eat before I do — so do not presume to make a meal of my corpse before it is cold."

He laughed, then.

Even as Rabban paced down the hall with leaden feet, he heard the Baron laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> While not meant to be the same character, "Radnor" is a name borrowed from the Harkonnen Mentat in Dune II, the 1992 RTS game.


End file.
